Midas' Gold
by Asanka
Summary: After the disastrous "Roadtrip," Dean tries to seek comfort by getting himself drunk with mysterious golden liquid. Castiel helps Sam relearn how fast thing goes south each time the brothers split ways. UPDATED.
1. The Beginning (of an End)

**Author's Note :** This is my very first piece I've done in full-English. Since I'm just a rookie in the amazing world of fanfiction, I'm still having trouble at balancing my 'real' and 'virtual' world. It's been roughly two years since my last attempt on writing, not that it mattered more than a mere lame excuse. I'm on my way (again and again) of getting back to the world of writing fanfic, so while doing it, I'm thinking of doing… this: a.k.a writing a story which stubbornly refused to go away instead of finishing my undergrad thesis.

To be honest, I'm not a native English speaker but I somewhat found it really difficult to put Supernatural stories within context of my native language; as in Dean's garden variety curses for example. So, this is going to be like a 'test-drive' for me attempting at writing in English. Just FYI, this 'pilot' story had been published previously as a one-shot in Indonesian under the tittle "Need You Now," originally inspired by Lady Antebellum's song. So yes, there will be thicker plot on this one, though I don't think I can make it into more than 3 chapters in total…

Please let me know what you think about it. If it works quite okay, I guess I'll put more effort to dwell myself more upon writing Supernatural fic in English. Well, posting next part as soon as possible at the very least.

Aaand of course… I'll be more than real happy if any of you good people are actually willing to volunteer on being my beta… (as for now, all mistakes are definitely mine).

Thank you for all wonderful fanfic writers out there whose stories had been my lights in the dark.

Just a mere social drinker myself, so there might be some possibilities that I didn't put things within the right context. Set just a bit after S9E10 "Roadtrip." For now, enjoy…

 **Summary :** We all knew how the "Roadtrip" ends for the brothers. Disastrous. Dean tried to find comfort by getting himself drunk. That was when the golden liquid caught his attention…

 **Warning :** Heavyweight angst all over, with prospect of Hurt/Comfort. Kinda twisting the canon a bit, so slightly AU, like the FC at the bar. Not a slash, but I DO make attempt on putting heavy bromance between Dean and both Sam as well as Castiel.

 **Disclaimer :** I know, it's not mine…

* * *

 **Midas' Gold**

* * *

Dean Winchester had never been so drunk before. Well, not _this_ drunk _._

Putting it in much simpler way, Dean might have visited each and every liquor store in all over United States for hundreds—if not thousand, or even million—times within his short span of given lifetime. If Sherlock Holmes could make a claim that he was a high-functioning sociopath, Dean probably would have been so proud to call himself a high-functioning alcoholic.

As far as Dean remembered, he'd been so attached to the alcoholic drink further back before his body even fit in his dad's leather jacket. No one could guarantee how many kinds of alcohol the hunter had ever consumed. Might as well every single specimen ever found in human history.

Dean would categorize wine was merely a fancy desert, beer as cheap refreshment, and vodka as a company to spend the night while watching new season of Dr. Sexy MD. Dean had lost count on how many times he'd drink whiskey as replacement of painkiller. He too would never miss at least a shot of tequila before hustling hundred dollars worth of pool game.

So, it was quite a miracle that on the time being Dean wasn't dying of damaged liver or kidney failure just yet. Off course, whatever seemed normal for a Winchester was generally seen as God's mysterious and miraculous work by most people. It worked in vice versa, though, including Dean's impossibly high tolerance towards two things along the years: pain and drunkenness.

And when ordinary people started asking how was that even possible, Dean would give a simple answer: "I can't afford screwing up while depending on the drink as pain-reliever."

Hell, he had even screwed up quite a lot these days sobered. _So much for a super human…_

So just for tonight, Dean Winchester was an _ordinary_ people. He was seriously drunk and his heart was constricting with a stabbing pain he knew wasn't coming from physical injury. Yeah well, what difference did that make anyway? No matter what kind of sugar coating used to cover it, a pain was a pain. And it always hurt as hell.

Swayed lightly on his chair, Dean waved a hand towards the pretty bartender… or _bartendrees_? The hunter automatically blurted a shaky laugh. Like _she_ 'd care.

"Hiya… Bertha…"

After the time with dying Sam in the hospital, after Gadreel, _after the lie_ … he'd been drinking in the particular bar for a while now to be considered a regular. Each time he came seeking for relieves or some 'me-time', Bertha would always welcome him with that playful yet understanding smile of hers. A smile that faintly reminded him of Lisa… so long time ago.

So as usual, Dean came again. The only difference was that there were no more lies tonight. He had blown it. Awesomely, to be precised. Not that Dean regretted it. Sammy deserved the truth, especially after the whole mess he was thrown into with Gadreel.

Correction. The mess _Dean_ made Sam thrown into.

Nothing mattered anymore, though. Dean had lost Sam's trust and it was for good this time. Nothing he could do would make things right again. But off course, had anything ever been right for the Winchesters?

Before getting really really drunk, Dean remembered ordering something strong to Bertha. He could give a rat's ass about the kind of drink as long as it was placed within the list of strongest alcohol ever sold at the bar. Not that he would also care on the things mixed into the drink. Could be anything at all, as long as it boosted the effect of the alcohol itself. If Dean managed to die after drinking it, that wouldn't be the first time at least.

Contemplating upon himself, Dean thought maybe this was how it felt like to be so guilty he just wanted to get over with life. Again.

"Commin right up in a sec, Hon," Bertha shouted from the other side of the table, snapping Dean back from his reverie.

Well, he didn't mean to interrupt her conversation with another customer—a rough looking beardy guy with biker-like appearance—but once the brunette turned around, Dean knew it was too late to cancel the call anyway. If he wasn't so out of it, Dean might notice a pissed glare coming from the beardy guy—but since he was, Dean could care more but to continue talking. "Ho' long're ya gonna keep m'glass empty?" he slurred.

Bertha let out a simple sigh before leaving the previous customer with an apologetic smile, and then walked towards the hunter. "Now now, what _else_ I can do for ya, Dean?"

It took a few minutes for Dean to notice that Bertha wasn't pouring him another shot just yet, so he raised his glass and displayed something resembled a loopy grin. "M-more… please?"

"Why?" was her only respond.

 _Why?_ Dean thought incredulously. _What kind of question is that?_

"Don't be petty. I know y'still got plenty of th'good stuffs." Dean was somewhat aware that he had just diverted her question and having no answer on why he was doing it. After few silent seconds, he shrugged, apparently choosing to simply ignore the stray thought after all.

Bertha shook her head in slight disbelief. "You've gotta take a look at yourself at the mirror. You're a mess, Dude."

"Thanks for reminding, Bertha. Heard that few times already now," Dean answered shortly. He raised a side of his lips to show his usual charming smile… which seemed to fail miserably. Watching how the bartender frowned, Dean soon realized that he was just making an expression akin to a constipated old man.

"Something happened, right?" Bertha asked using a tone of someone pointing out a point.

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Not that y'can do anything 'bout it."

"Try me."

As if on cue, Dean leaned even closer to her until the tip of his nose almost touched Bertha's. He looked her in the eye and drew a faint smile. "I want'y t'find me a c'pboard that'll send me t'Narnia… like right friggin now."

"Why?" Bertha asked again. No judgement was in her voice.

"Why do I wanta leave t'lala land, y'mean?"

No nods from the brunette but she did blinked once.

"Same ol' song, Sweetheart," Dean scoffed, "real life sucks out laud… on stereo… with surround sounds…"

"Uhuh."

Dean eyed the shelf behind Bertha's back, well-stocked with a row of various liquors. Among others, he spotted one bottle with goldy brown liquid in it. "That strong enough?" asked Dean while pointing at the bottle.

" _Midas's gold, or_ so I was told _,_ " Bertha commented shortly. "A real strong one, that is."

"I'll give't a try," Dean insisted.

Reluctantly, Bertha reached for the bottle and put it on the table near Dean's glass. Hesitation was pictured on her face. "Sure you're up for this?" she asked Dean, just to make sure.

"I'm tellin ya, Bertha, I'd drink just pretty much anything… anything at all that will ease the…"

Dean never finished his sentence. Saying the word _pain_ would only make it felt even more real. As for Dean "The Awesome Big Brother" Winchester, apparently there just seemed not enough pain tolerance to ever begin with…

"Right very now, you're not a guy with adorable smile I used to see from night to night, Dean," Bertha spoke in sympathy.

"Yeah," Dean snorted a bitter laugh, "that guy you just mentioned is not available for now."

 _Adorable smile my ass,_ Dean muttered to himself. _How could I even smile after denying my beloved brother a luxury of forget-all-crap death? And worse still, tricking him while doing so?_

"Well, I know whatever your problem isn't my business but I really think you've had enough for tonight," Bertha said earnestly.

However, Dean abruptly spluttered another laugh. An _almost_ hysterical one this time. Soon as the laugh had been reduced to mere drunken giggles, Dean shifted his gaze to the beardy guy, who was now returning Dean a favor of a death glare. Just a right time for another diversion. "Geez, naw you're kickin me out 'coz you've found a customer with… more adorable smile?"

Bertha followed Dean's gaze and couldn't help but chuckled. She finally grabbed the golden brown liquor and brought in towards her drunken customer. "No worry, Dean'o. You still got the number one-smile," she whispered while pouring the seemingly gleamed liquid into Dean's empty glass, "this one is on me. The very last one. No more drinking tonight. Capiche?"

Dean looked at his now-filled glass then averted the glance towards Bertha. Lazy smile spread on his face. "Aww, I really thought you'd be a bit more generous."

"I _am_ generous," the brunette smiled. "Promise me you'll go home and sleep, then I'll consider to be more… generous next time you're coming."

"'Kay," Dean nodded hazily, "but sure you don't wanna come w'me?"

Bertha instantly quirked an eyebrow. "Come with you? Where?"

"Com'n sleep w'me," said Dean, accompanied by an obviously out-of-it smirk.

"I'm not nursing you while puking your guts out in the middle of the night," Bertha gave a small laugh, "enjoy your last drink while you can, 'kay?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "My _last_ drink, huh? Any… precaution or side'ffect y'arn't tellm'me?"

"Don'tcha want to find it out yourself?" Bertha winked before turning her back on Dean.

By the time she left for other new customers, however, Dean wasn't fully paying attention anymore. He focused solely on the thing in front of him; a small glass filled to the brim with a curious golden liquid.

For a moment, a mass of fog swirled around his brain. Thinking gradually became an arduous task for his befuddled mind. He was sure Bertha did said something about the liquor few minutes—or maybe couple hours?—ago. She called it something… with the word 'gold' in it, if he wasn't mistaken. There was another word; something reminded Dean to some Greek myth and lore his daddy used to make him memorized so long ago.

Was it 'Midas'? _Midas's Gold!_ Yes, that was it. That was the drink's name.

Dean starred at the golden liquid one last time. There was something about the color, how it glowed and gleamed, but he couldn't quite put his hands on it.

 _Might be poisonous,_ Dean contemplated. He was actually surprised for having that thought abruptly appeared in his mind just like that.

 _Right,_ he continued the train of thought, _but aren't I poisonous myself?_

And it came to Dean in a painful flash. His conversation with Sam at the dock while light showers of rain drizzling unto them…

* * *

"… _I'm poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed. Or worse…"_

 _Sam wasn't even looking Dean in the eyes._

" _Go. I'm not going to stop you. But don't go thinking that's the problem 'cause it's not…"_

* * *

Dean remembered asking Sam what was his last sentence supposed to mean. Honestly, that was a downright lie. Dean knew so well that Gadreel and all that followed indeed weren't their real life problem. _He_ was.

 _Well, I'm done with the thinking part. Screw life!_ Dean said to himself before picking up the glass and drank the liquid in one gulp.

Almost instantly, he felt the liquid morphed into explosion of heat in his mouth before trailing down his throat. He gasped in reflex, body shaking violently with sudden shock. Soon enough, it gave Dean a weird sensation he could only explained as a 'parade of fireworks on the fourth of July' inside his stomach.

It ended with a white blast. And then, everything was covered in shining golden lights.

For a couple magical minutes—which oddly, also felt like a lifetime—Dean was surrounded with nothingness. No pain, no happiness, just blank. God, how he had almost forgot how good it _felt_ to be blank. How blissful…

So, surrender he did to the blankness that was feathery light, flying like a lone kite in the open noon sky so bright. It was comforting in the oddest way possible to be just like the kite, going up up up until it vanished from the sight. And just like the kite, Dean understood that he might as well faded too… imitating all the golden glows around him, which slowly dulled into blurry odd colors… and then disappeared.

TBC.

* * *

Cas and Sam is about to join on the next chap. Your reviews, favs or follows are love :')


	2. Mighty Long Fall

**Author's Note:** I was thrilled to see so many of you checking the "Following" box on this story. No less gratitude for those clicking the "Favorite" box and sparing some of your precious time for writing even only few lines of review.

So here it is, the next part of Midas' Gold. I know, it's a real short one, but I can promise you a long one for next chapter. I still don't change my mind. Next chapter may be the last, two more tops. It wasn't even intended as a multichapters at first.

The so very late update and other faults, including misspellings and bad grammars, are mine and mine alone. I hope you guys like it. I honestly put a lot of effort writing this. Still, please let me know what you think about it though. Thanks

 **Summary:** We all knew how the "Roadtrip" ended for the brothers. Disastrous. Dean tried to find comfort by getting himself drunk. That was when the golden liquid caught his attention…

 **Warning:** I hinted _the_ Greek mythology in this story, but you knew already, right? Do expect lots of angst still, but we're heading towards the Hurt part. Still, not a slash, but feel free to unleash your very own imaginations. So probably, the 'slight' AU is getting a bit… out of control.

 **Disclaimer:** I know, it's not mine…

* * *

 **Midas' Gold**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: _Mighty Long Fall_**

Castiel the angel of the Lord had never been so agitated before. Well, not _this_ agitated.

Driving what the King of Hell just called a 'pimp car' earlier that morning, his focus was split into the road stretched ahead in front of him, and a hunched man on the passenger street. If only Castiel had not dwelt too much into the world of sinful being called human, he would've felt no remorse at all. He wouldn't even have been aware of how awkward his position had been after being the third person to watch both Winchesters dealt with their long overdue issue.

But he had walked the earth as a human himself for quite a while. Not even his newly acquired— _stolen_ —grace would be enough to dull his leftover ability to feel.

Carefully, Castiel glanced to passenger side just from the corner of his eyes. Sam hadn't said a word since their departure from the dock, where they had parted ways with Dean. Nevertheless, the fallen angel could somewhat picture the mix of emotions radiating through Sam's face.

He was not sure if he put it in the right context, but Castiel would say that Sam was currently bearing an expression of a kicked puppy. To be more specific, it was a puppy kicked harshly by its own kid owner before a speeding car ran over it. It was unmistakably a good attempt to push the puppy away from harm's way. However, the kid could not see how much of a trauma he had caused to his loyal companion in the process. The kid concentrated too much to save his puppy's life, not knowing the big damage he had inflicted to their seemingly everlasting relationship.

Off course, those are only scenes running inside the angel's mind. They were the only possible ways Castiel could use to describe how he felt watching the previous scene at the dock. It never ceased to amaze him how human love and hurt could collide so much, tangled painfully with each other. How human stood it—how _the Winchesters_ stood it—to this very day was and always would by a mystery for the angel.

"You okay, Sam? Do you need me to stop somewhere first, maybe?" asked Castiel, stealing a glance to his right side. His voice suddenly sounded weird even in his own ears. "I'm sorry to say it, Sam, but you do look like death warmed over."

One thing Castiel would ever thank for from Metatron was the fact that he had given Cas the ability to understand the use of popular reference as most human did. As _Dean_ did. Now, he got the reason why most human—especially Dean—so often chose to use remarks and metaphors during a very horrible situation. Reflecting from firsthand experience, it was possibly one of human most effective ways to alleviate the weight of the situation. To pretend that things would eventually get better, even when it would certainly not.

"I'm fine," replied Sam shortly. His voice was just floating there, a bit higher than a mere whisper.

Castiel could see a small sour smile Sam was attempting to make nonetheless. "Are you sure?"

At first, Castiel thought that reference was a great tool of deflection. Nothing taught him better than Winchester's definition of 'fine'. The more he submerged to it though, Castiel was astonished to realize that reference could actually do so much more of a use.

Sam and Dean might be oblivious to the fact that they indeed had a guardian angel, including the fact that _that_ guardian angel had watched them since the day they were born. Castiel remembered every times when Dean would whisper "I'm fine" to little Sammy even though he was obviously in pain, either physically or emotionally. 'Fine' was Dean's MO to make Sam felt safe, putting him away from nightmares and the dark thought of his prophesized destiny. More importantly, to keep Sam's tendency for unending guilt-trip at bay.

Returning Dean's favor, Sam had said the same sentence each time he was about to freak out in panic, knowing that would worsen his big brother's worry towards him. That was Sam's MO on saying 'fine', just like when he almost went crazy from his 'Lucifer' episodes few months back.

It did take time, but Castiel eventually realize what a reference supposed to be fundamentally used for. It was a replacement for those emotions human could never put into exact words and sentence. Feeling, as it was destined for, was to be _felt._ No words could ever exactly describe a feeling. Reference, however, helped human to imagine what others meant—in terms of emotion—which was easily concealed by sheer use of words, such as…

"I'm really fine, Cas," Sam repeated. This time with firmer tone of voice.

"Okay," Castiel nodded hesitantly.

He wasn't actually sure if he was trying to believe in Sam or convincing himself that everything was fine, like nothing happened at all. Right. Because that was what he always did in the past. Doing nothing. Just watching and left, pretending that everything was fine, like nothing happened at all. _So much of a guardian angel_...

They continued driving in complete uncomfortable silence. Castiel pretended to check his navigation apps now and then just to make himself felt busy. To tell the truth, his 'borrowed' grace had recovered all angelic ability he had lost, including full-on automatic navigation mode—minus the teleportation, due to the broken wings.

Casting his glance for the umpteenth times to the passenger side, Castiel noticed that Sam had now fully rested his head to the window. Christ, he looked so tired. Contrasting to Sam's sickly pallor, a pair of dark shadows was settling under his eyes, which somehow seemed a bit glazed and unfocused.

Sam's cheeks, which were used to be decorated with deep dimples each time he smiled, now sank deep as if hollowed. God knew how much damages Crowley had inflicted in Sam's head during his last session. Not mentioning how the events of Sam's latest possession must have taken its toll on his body entirely.

Overall, Sam looked deflated. Defeated. Gone were the days of his confident smile, eyes gleaming with determination, just like the way Castiel noticed the first time he met Sam in person, soon after raising Dean from perdition. Back then, there were so many times when pride was burning in Sam's eyes, especially when he was fully assured that his new ability would enable him to kill Lilith, therefore avenging his brother's death.

Being a demon blood addict might also add to that point, albeit the whole guilt trip soon as Sam found out how wrong his decision had taken him. However, Sam was never really the type to succumb deep in self-loathing and ended up in some kind of self destruction. Not so much like Dean, at least. Apocalypse sure gave Sam the ultimate reason to tough up before doing his full-blown kamikaze mission.

Was it since Sam got his damaged soul back that he was starting to break bits by bits? Castiel remembered Dean as a young man carrying a warrior's soul, but hell had done a superb job to break him into pieces. There was no guarantee the same thing wouldn't be the case with Sam, considering all the mental tortures he got back down the pit. Or, was it since Sam started to undergo the trials?

Trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, Cas turned on the radio—and instantly regretted his foolish decision once Rascal Flatts song was in the air.

 _What hurt the most was being so close,_

 _Having so much to say and watching you walk away…_

Castiel once again shifted his gaze to see Sam's reaction through his reflection on the window glass. His fingers were ready to reach the radio off button anytime, but Sam did not speak a word. To Castiel's observation, Sam didn't even seem listening to the radio— _or,_ to anything actually—at all.

Some brand new creases were already added to Sam's forehead; others were carved by constant worry and anxiety over the past years. If Castiel did not know better, Sam's lines of worry had increased tenfold only in a matter of seconds.

For a moment, Sam seemed deeply lost in his own complicated thought. His eyes were still channeled to the darkness outside the car, but Sam's face could not really hide obvious signs of uneasiness. Few more seconds passed and his knee started to bounce restlessly.

Eventually, Castiel could not stand the fidgeting anymore.

"Sure you're okay, Sam? 'Cause I can pull over if you—"

"Told you, Cas, I'm fine!" Sam snapped. Apparently, it came out so much harsher than he ever intended it to be. Sam watched, as the angel looked a bit startled by his tone of respond, and sighed in resignation. "I'm so sorry, Cas, I didn't mean to…"

"Something's troubling you?" Castiel interjected. By all means, he wasn't mad at all. Not at Sam, at least, but rather to himself. Castiel was genuinely worried over Sam's condition, and it frustrated him that he couldn't express it properly.

 _That,_ or Sam just wouldn't want to really acknowledge his good willed intention.

Relaxing his grip on the steering wheel, Castiel tried again. This time, he had the idea on which button he needed to push in order to urge Sam opening himself up.

"It was Dean, wasn't it?"

Sam's eyes went stiff instantaneously. Castiel knew he had hit the exact button and tried so hard not to draw a triumphant smile. "You're worried about Dean, aren't you?"

Avoiding Castiel's eyes, Sam sighed. "Why are you asking me that?"

"You know, we can always turn back. He couldn't be so far by now—"

"Dean wanted to leave," Sam interjected sharply, "and I've made it clear to let him do what he does, whatever it's gonna be."

"But?"

Castiel let his question hung in the air. He wasn't welcomed with immediate respond, but it didn't mean that there wouldn't be one. He was so sure of it. Castiel had learned the trick from Dean few years ago, and so far, it had almost had 100% success rate.

Sam eventually huffed in exasperation. "It's just…"

 _Bingo!_ Castiel congratulated himself in silence. Now, he only needed to wait for…

"I just can't shake this feeling off, no matter how hard I try," Sam brought his fingers to his head, running them through his damp hair in obvious frustration.

"What kind of feeling, Sam?" Castiel frowned, "I don't think I follow…"

Sam swallowed hard. "Dean might be in trouble now."

Upon a sheer reflect, Castiel stepped hard on the brake, effectively stopping the car despite the shortened momentum. His pushed his back hard against the seat while caught off guard, Sam bounced forward. Tightened seatbelt was the only thing holding his chest against the dashboard. The tires swerved slightly to the side of the road before finally stopped completely.

"What the hell was that supposed to mean, Cas—"

"How sure you think that Dean's in trouble?"

The angel turned his head and stared at Sam with such intensity. The less of expression on the other features of Castiel's face might look funny if only they weren't in such serious situation. At first, Sam didn't move his gaze from the empty road ahead. Even he seemed unsure for whatever he was about to tell Cas.

"Sam," the angel pushed ahead, "what is it?"

Only after a few minutes of suffocating silence, Sam closed his eyes. His next words came out in choked whisper. "Dean can't stand not to do something stupid… each time we parted ways."

* * *

Dean Winchester had never disappeared before. Well, not _into thin air_ at least.

Hence, he had no idea on how 'disappeared' supposed to feel like. Dean almost believed that he did, though. The blast of light… the sparkling golden halos all over… the whole afterglow after drinking Midas' Gold had been so overwhelming. For a moment, Dean swore he was swallowed by the blinding light, before experiencing something he'd ignorantly call as _nothingness._

Time seemed to slow down gradually until suddenly it just stopped. Dean didn't need to take a look at his watch just to prove that it wasn't ticking, just like the clock hanging on the wall at his 7 o'clock. To be honest, Dean didn't know how he could tell about the time and the clock at all. He just kind of figured them out somehow.

" _That was quite a burden weighing you down, Young Man."_

Dean felt himself flinched. Did he just hear a voice? And was it actually calling… _him_?

The nothingness enveloped Dean in some kind of trance, but the voice—the whisper, or whatever it was—seemed to crack a slight opening. A hairline fracture towards consciousness… of some sort.

" _I can see how weary your soul is… Dean."_

This time though, Dean didn't think twice before snapping his eyes open in a blink. For a moment, he was about to embrace the killer headache and nauseating disorientation for stupidly letting himself drank too much. Dean was so ready he almost missed the fact that none of them actually happened.

To Dean's surprise, he wasn't in the bar any more, or so it seemed.

Instead of roof, he found a blank blue sky above his head. When he looked around, there was no sign of him sitting drunkenly in a bar approximately less than half an hour ago. Not even a single trace of alcohol smell floating in the air. Instead, his eyes were gazing at the similar lush green of a meadow, stretched endlessly to the edge of the horizon. When Dean looked up, he could see the blaring sun. Unexpectedly, his skin barely felt anything other than somewhat relaxing warmth instead of burning heat. To be honest, the cool breeze was quite nice too.

 _Now that's weird_ , Dean thought, because if he insisted that it was all just a freakish dream, he shouldn't feel anything. Or should he?

That wasn't all. Much of his confusion, Dean found himself standing by the side of a river. It was quite a wide one that he could barely see the beach on the other side. After all, it was just a medium-sized river nonetheless, not the friggin Nile or anything. And right there, just a few yards on Dean's left, there was a small boat created in somewhat artsy design, just like those elfish boats Dean used to watch in one of the Lord of the Ring movies.

Much to his curiosity, there was an old man in white robe- _ish_ garment standing on that boat. He had wavy shoulder-length dark brown hair with few strikes of grey, similar to his mustache and beard. Dean should admit that it was the oddest among the whole sight he was having so far.

"You seem lost, Son." The old man smiled gracefully.

The hunter side of Dean yelled out for him to be cautious, since there was no way he could just being transported—or _teleported_ —to a weird place out of nowhere without explanation. Not even angel or any other celestial being on heaven or earth to make sense of this situation. He was just sitting in a bar, drinking some weird ass drink for God sake.

For addition, Dean felt incredibly _alright_ when he supposed to expect something more like a shipwreck-ish feeling. Made that double cautious.

And yet, Dean found his legs moving on their own will, walking in steady steps towards the old man without any slight hesitation whatsoever. Once he got to the side where the boat was harbored, Dean offered the man his infamous lopsided smirk. "Lost is definitely an understatement."

The old man smiled back. "I can see that."

"You know, I really _really_ want to believe that this is just an exceptionally fine Technicolor version of dream, and in HQ too," Dean spoke, eyes boring down to the old man's, "but we both know that it's not true, is it?"

"You tell me, Son."

The way the old guy answered stirred something in Dean's chest cavity. "What's with this whole _What a Wonderful World_ setting? 'Cause last time I checked, there should've been glasses and bottles around…"

"Well, what do you think these things are?"

"Hey, I'm the clueless one here!"

"Then try to remember, what did you do you think would've led you here?" the old man questioned Dean back.

Dean ran a hand to wipe his face, surprised to find his stubbed chin was actually clean. "Well… I had a shot… or two… then I drank one last time, this golden- _ish_ thing…," he tried to recall his memory and suddenly gasped in realization. "Oh, crap. Must be that weird stuff Bertha gave me."

The sage-like man raised his eyebrows in amusement. "So, it's 'Bertha'this time around huh?"

"Something's funny to you?"

"No, off course not," the old man chuckled. "This is just the thing you've asked her, isn't it?"

Dean stared at him suspiciously. He wondered if Bertha indeed had something to do with it somehow. After all, Dean _did_ remembered asking her to find him magic cupboard to Narnia. Never crossed his mind that the bartender would really take the joke seriously.

"So… no way it's true but," he shook his head lightly before continuing, " _am I in lala land now?_ "

Dean wasn't sure if the way he answered or something in his voice sounded funny, but the old man was bursting in laughter almost spontaneously. "That's what you call it, huh? _Lala land?_ Could be, Son. Could be."

The after-laugh wide smile didn't leave the old guy's face. There was something in his smile though; something that painfully reminded Dean of his long gone father. The very smile John drew at that hospital room, just few minutes after Dean's miraculous healing. It was that kind of smile he could only describe in a single word: _finality._

Upon the sudden memory rush, Dean closed his eyes tight, refusing to acknowledge the wetness of tears forming there. "Doesn't matter," he swallowed, "who are you anyway? Wait. Don't tell me. Those robe… those beard… you're not Jesus though, are you?"

The old man let out a soft chuckle before shaking his head. "Nobody called me that before."

Shrugging, Dean continued. "Cool. Definitely not heaven then," he smirked grimly, "but you know my name. Question is _how?_ "

"If I say that I just happen to know, will you believe me?"

Dean scoffed. "Like hell I will."

"I know you won't," the old man continued in still gentle voice, "but apparently, I have a neat records of _any_ human ever walked the earth. Every single of them. Including you."

"Really?" asked Dean calmly. The fact though, he could feel rush of chills down his spine. "No human can possibly do that, not even the FBI."

"You think I'm not a human?"

"I _know_ you're not a human."

"I sure look like one, don't I?"

"Yeah, as well as all those shapeshifters, werewolves, and vampires," commented Dean while doing what he did best as defense mechanism—smirking as sarcastically as possible—despite the ever speeding pound inside his chest cavity, "not mentioning zombies and other mythical beings; demons and ancient gods to name a few."

"You're getting close there."

"So, why don't you save me some times and just tell me who you really are?"

For a moment, the old man didn't say a word. He even seemed to enjoy the awkward silence between him and Dean.

Naturally born impatient, Dean threw his hands up in a propagating way. "You don't wanna tell me? Fine! I'm just gonna find someone els—"

"The name is Charon," said the old man in a very calm and steady voice.

The name definitely rang a bell, countless time and in incredibly deafening volume. He was familiar with the name, but… it couldn't be right. It shouldn't be possible.

"Ch… Charon?" Dean stammered, "as in _the_ Charon?"

The old man blinked approvingly. "And as for the place," he added, "have you ever heard of… Acheron River?"

This time, Dean's body went rigid all of a sudden. Something clicked in his mind and everything clearly made sense now. _Well_ , a dreadful one, that was. "Did you just say… _Acheron_?"

* * *

TBC.

* * *

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	3. Heartache

**Author's Note:** I'm still alive, but yes, few months back, I couldn't bring myself to do or think about pretty much anything but my thesis, so… another lame lame lame excuse. So here's the latest update for Midas' Gold. Promise, next chapter will be the last (hopefully can also be posted somewhere next week)

More thanks to those stopping by to read, favorite, or follow this story or me. It means so much for such a klutz like me. Hope you like the progress of the story, although it's kinda slow, I know. Any suggestions or critics, just let me know.

 **Summary:** We all knew how the "Roadtrip" ended for the brothers. Disastrous. Dean tried to find comfort by getting himself drunk. That was when the golden liquid caught his attention…

 **Warning:** Basically very Sam-centric, with a dash of Cas. Off course, Dean's still in. Few flashbacks with no emergency warning for spoilers. Still angst-heavy (I tried my best), and I've decided to put ALL Hurt/Comfort part on the next—and last—chapter of Midas' Gold, where all mysteries will hopefully be revealed (I'm currently working on it).

Un-beta-ed, pardon my bad English. All errors are mine and mine alone to blame, unlike Supernatural and all related IP. T for bad words.

Dean/Sam/Cas/dash of some other characters. Sorry, not a slash fic.

All and all, ENJOY!

* * *

 **Midas' Gold**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Heartache**

Sam Winchester had never been so torn before. Well, not _this_ torn.

Played inside his muddled brain, Sam could almost imagine himself standing on a stage, dirty skull was hold high by his skinny hand. Putting aside any details about middle age clothing, he was practically playing Hamlet. The script was undoubtedly the same, although some variations were made to suit his situation.

In his mind, Sam was lamenting, " _To check on Dean or not to check on Dean, that's the question…_ "

Sounded somewhere in far distance, Sam realized the radio had just shuffled. The apparently country music station was playing John Mayer's _Half of My Heart_ now _._ Hamlet's image dispersed and Sam was laughing inside. Bitterly. What a joke.

 _Half of my heart has got a grip on the situation, half of my heart takes time…_

Sam wanted so bad to insist, to keep on telling himself that this was what Dean had wanted to do. That this was Dean's conscious decision to leave and it just had to be done for both of their sake. Not that Sam refused to let his brother go. How could he even do that after being denied to leave himself and ended up paying the price for someone else's stupidity?

 _No,_ Sam repeated to himself. He had all the right in the world to be pissed because this time, the mistake was on Dean. Everything came to this point because the bad choice his big brother made. If Dean wanted to go pay whatever long overdue repercussion of things he had done, he was free to do so.

It was okay. Dean deserved it and Sam would have nothing to do with it. Dean was a big boy and truthfully, Sam was probably too tired already, being the one left to pick up the pieces. Wasn't it just fair to hold responsibility for the fruits of one's own wrongdoing?

 _Half of my heart got a right mind to tell you that I keep… keep loving you_

Sam wanted… no, _needed_ to believe, desperately, that he really had no obligation whatsoever to deal with Dean's decision, including any possible outcomes later. That this time was so much different than other time when they went separate ways. That he would never _ever_ regret letting his brother go…

 _Wouldn't he?_

Because deep deep down, Sam knew. That was the only way he could think would calm his nerves down from being daunted by the prospect of what might come next. The usual consequences of separation, Winchester style.

* * *

Dean was never hot on Greek mythology, simply because he first needed to drown himself in countless transcripts, old manuscripts, or stacks of "A to Z Encyclopedia of the Ancient Greek" at the very least, in order to become a real fan of it. Honest to God, Dean just couldn't muster the energy to start reading. Even the prospect of it made him quite nauseous all of a sudden.

However, it didn't mean that Dean had never researched about it before. In fact, he had no option but doing so when John had just left him years ago. Dean could and _would_ read pretty much anything, as long as it was for a hunt. And if he had to bury himself in old dusty manuscript just to get by, so be it.

So yes, Dean knew about Acheron River and he basically had some ideas on who Charon was. No doubt about that. In fact, he was just too terrified—and probably struck in disbelief too—to actually acknowledge the situation he was in.

If Dean's memory didn't betray him, Acheron River was suppose to be some kind of cousin to Styx, another Greek myth river which flew from the land of the living to _Hades,_ a.k.a The Underworld. As for Charon, he was a plain boatman. It just happened that he was also known as a chaperone for the dead, or so Dean remembered.

If only he paid more attention to research, Dean might have even get the vague idea on how Charon supposed to be like, and possibly, how to defend oneself in the face of the afterlife boatman. Well, not that he expected to meet the guy at all, anyway. At times like this, a deeper and more detailed research would be one hell of a help.

 _Given his devotion to research, Sammy must had known much much better_. The thought had come out of nowhere and Dean couldn't help to draw a ghost of smile.

Research and reading was always Sam's thing. Dean had seen it coming since his little brother's early age. Subject of history had always had a special place in Sam's heart in particular, including things about old Greek mythology. Sam didn't just like old manuscripts, he loved them. That was just how Sam was. Sam was so…

 _So far_ from him now _._ Dean swallowed painfully against yet another wave of guilt and regret. Thinking about his little brother somehow brought a huge amount of pressure in his chest, suffocating him, even in this weird-ass limbo wonderland.

"So… this is it, huh? No heroic stunt, no gun blazing, just a glass of weird ass drink and _poof!_ " Dean scoffed in raw voice, trying his best to keep his composure albeit the overwhelming assault of remorse. The remnants of bitterness still clung heavily at the base of his tongue and Dean just couldn't seem to stifle a slightly hysterical laugh, "It seems like I'll always get the lamest ways to die after all!"

"Pretty much, yes," Charon responded rather casually, "electrocution, brain edema… well, those tricks the lunatic angel had pulled on you just really _really_ never gets old… But overall, you being hellhounds' chew toy is still my all time favorite though."

 _A psycho Greek god with blood and gore fetish, isn't that just awesome?_ Dean told himself in dark humor. "No need for reminder, thank you."

"What can I say? We Greeks love tragedy just a bit too much," Charon shrugged, "there's just nothing like it."

"You've got quite a sense of humor, I see. Just keep it at a healthy dose, will ya?" Dean commented dryly, although deep down, he got a hunch that the god-ish guy was actually directing his sarcasm to Dean. Every 21st century hunters understood that _Winchester_ was a synonym for tragedy. Why else would it be?

Charon laughed a bit more before giving Dean a warm yet serious look. "So?"

Dean stared back at the old man incredulously. "So… what?"

Leaning his long oar on one shoulder, Charon folded his hands in front of his chest. "Are you coming, Dean?"

* * *

Castiel couldn't stand the silence—and the lack of decision—anymore. He could feel his grip on the wheel got so tight it started to hurt at some point. "I think you should probably call him … or something."

For the first time in like… forever, Sam finally glanced at the angel who was sitting on the driver seat, but hastily averted his eyes again somewhere. Anywhere.

"Why?" Sam finally managed to ask noncommittally. His eyes still didn't meet Castiel's incredulous look.

The angel couldn't help not to huff an exasperated sigh. "I thought you were pretty sure that Dean is most likely wasting himself doing something stupid. Right very now."

"I was just saying—"

"You know exactly what is coming."

"What difference would it make anyway?" Sam growled. Despite the still lingering frustration, Castiel could sense the tinge of bitterness seeping through Sam's raspy voice.

"You're not serious, Sam."

"The fuck I am!"

Castiel shot Sam with a look of obvious disbelief. "You're saying that you'll let Dean do whatever he does now, even when it possibly brings harm for him?"

"He didn't bother asking my consent before getting me possessed by some psycho angel!" Sam spat sharply, "why would he listen to me this time?"

"You know Dean did that for you, Sam. To save your life."

"No, he didn't! I didn't ask to be saved either, did I?" Sam lower lip trembled slightly. His face alternated between suppressed anger and frustration. "Don't you understand? He did it for himself. He couldn't stand the thought of living alone. That was why he selfishly chose to deny my very right to die!"

Castiel gave Sam a soulful look. "Your brother is anything but selfish, Sam."

"Dean thinks he can choose what he sees best for me," Sam cut in, but his voice came out like choked whisper. Vaguely, Castiel could see some moisture brimming on the hunter's eyes.

Quickly, Sam blinked the tears away. "After… everything… I thought we were finally equal. No more betrayal, no more lie. But today, he just did all the opposite, Cas. Tell me how am I supposed to feel about that, huh?"

For a few seconds, the agonizing silence fell on them. It was Sam who finally broke the spell, only to slightly replace it with brand new atmosphere of desperation.

"Just once, Cas… _just once…_ why couldn't Dean even trust me to chose what I think is best for myself?"

This time, Castiel looked at the broken hunter in sympathy. From the very beginning, the angel could tell that Sam was upset about the fact that he didn't die even when he wanted it so badly. For someone who had through so much pain, so much torture, it was just normal seeing death as a finished line. A peaceful rest, at last. The mighty leverage.

However, Castiel somewhat believed that wasn't the real reason why Sam was having a real hard time forgiving his brother. Above everything, it must be the lie that made Sam felt so betrayed.

"Dean made a grave mistake, I agree," Castiel cast Sam an understanding look, "but that doesn't change the fact that he is your brother, Sam. You know he cares about you more than anything."

To live a life of the Winchesters, Sam and Dean must had worked so hard to put their motion into perfect sync. Sam relied to his brother for having his back and vice versa in order to keep on moving and hunting. It was a life which was built on pure trust and co-dependency, albeit unhealthy one. That could make betrayal hit so much harder for the brothers.

While being a human, Castiel learned many proverbs and wise words. One of them spoke about trust; _you could try to build a trust for a lifetime and ruined it in a second._ Just like a fine china, once a trust was shattered, it was so unlikely to ever regain its perfect former shape, no matter how strong of super glue you used. Sam and Dean's brotherhood had been tainted with betrayal awhile back and there was no way it didn't leave event the slightest mark on them.

At this moment, the angel knew he couldn't force Sam to re-trust Dean so instantly, so he reached to his coat pocket and taking out his cell phone instead. Castiel let out a sigh while handing Sam his phone. "Just call him, would you?"

* * *

" _Are you coming, Dean?"_

For a few seconds, Dean just stood where he was, eyes wouldn't leave the old boatman. Responding to the offer, Dean threw Charon an absolute confused look. "Coming wher—"

For a moment, the rest of Dean's question stuck in his throat, refusing to come out. A realization of the seriousness of his current situation struck him hard. Charon's playful manner since the very beginning, and the completely comfortable surroundings, almost lulled Dean from the real reason why he was there at the first place.

"Th-this is… _uhm_ … it's all real, then? This whole… dying thing?"

Charon nodded calmly. "As real as it looks, Son."

"I get on that boat with you and I'm really going to go to… _the other side_?" Dean continued. The whole situation somehow seemed to him like a cruel sick joke. Half his brain even still refused to believe what the other half realized was happening. It was quite funny to know there was no such thing as left-right brain diversification and feeling them worked differently right then.

"I thought you were asking for it only few moments ago," Charon cocked his head, "and _desperately_ so, I must add."

An unmistakable lump grew in Dean's throat. He tried to swallow it away but it seemed like the lump wouldn't budge no matter what.

Charon's feature softened even further. The look in his eyes reflected deep sympathy, if not a well-disguised pity. "Aren't you tired of everything, Dean? Tired of making mistakes, of making wrong decisions, of failing people you loved the most?"

Charon's words hit Dean hard and in a very short period of time, he could feel the last bricks of his mighty mental wall started to crumble.

* * *

"What say you, Sam?"

In an instant, the hunter snapped. To his left, the angel of the Lord was watching him intensely with his deep blue piercing eyes, waiting. Castiel's left hands were still on the wheel while the other one still handed him the cell phone. Sam had no clue how long he had ignored the angel but judging from the tremble of the machine, he realized that Castiel had managed to ignite the car and putting it on _neutral._ Ready to go.

 _Wait. Ready to go where again?_

"Are we driving back to check on Dean?" Castiel asked with clear punctuation in each words, as if stating _not_ asking.

 _Right. Dean._

Sam swallowed. He was actually aware on how the rise and fall of his chest had quickened, or how his jaw suddenly tightened to the point of being painful. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to make any attempt of deciding.

Half of his heart was literally contemplating to go on their merry way back to the bunker. Dean and whatever trouble he was at now be damned.

Sam would be lying big time if he had neither disappointment nor resentment left for Dean. His chest was still aching real bad each time the memory of Kevin's death fleshed back in his mind. The feeling of desperation was so much alike to the time he became Meg's meatsuit to kill Steve Wandell long years ago. But back then, Sam could half blamed his own recklessness for giving Meg the chance of possession, so the heavy guilt was totally justifiable.

This time though, It wasn't some skanky demon who made Sam spill blood. Well, technically, it was the rogue angel Gadreel who did it. However, the one who made it possibly at the first place was no other than Dean himself—the big brother who used to reassure Sam, time after time, that anything happened during the period of Meg's possession really wasn't his fault.

The same big brother who witnessed how much misery a possession had made his little brother suffer. Sam was just having a very hard time to understand why after everything, Dean could even still think of making him relive the same nightmare. Again.

 _Another half of his heart however…_

* * *

Charon's words really stabbed Dean deep, slashing him into pieces and stripping him bare. Flashes of memories assaulted him mercilessly. They were faces of those Dean failed to save, people who had wasted their life willingly for the sake of saving his sorry ass over and over again; there were Mary's, Pastor Jim's, John's, Hendrickson's, Nancy's, Ellen's, Jo's, Rufus's, Bobby's, _hell_ even the fancy angel Gabriel.

The rush of memory kept on coming like a marathon of bad movie night. Dean tried so hard to block the images, but they wouldn't back down. After what seemed like a lifetime, the flashes of images slowed down. However, it didn't vanish before showing five figures in a row.

At first, there was Lisa. _Her hands came out bloodied from a stabbing wound on her stomach…_

There was also Benny. _His head came off in a single blow…_

Then came Castiel. _His body was torn and bloodied…_

Kevin Tran followed not so long after. _Both his eyes were charred hollowed abyss…_

And then there was Sam. _He was laying on a hospital bed, looking so pale and frail with machine beeping all over._

Dean felt streams of hot tears filling his eyes to the brim. All this time, failing them over and over was the only thing he managed to do. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he had sacrificed, nothing did any favor to make sure Dean was keeping his promise for them. The empty _'as long as I'm around, I won't ever let anything bad happen to you'_ words.

"Just… stop. Please…," he pleaded in strangled sobs.

"I can't stop the pain for you, neither in the past nor in the future. However," Charon made a brief pause before continuing, " _you_ can, Dean. It's _you_ who have the shot to stop the pain once and for all."

Dean lifted his head to look at Charon in the eyes, all defenses had broken down. "Do I?"

Charon nodded reassuringly. "No more guilt, no more pain. I promise. All you need to do is stepping into my boat and sail with me."

The prospect of unloading his burden, his life long guilt, and to wash away his poison looked appealing as hell. Dean couldn't remember the last time he saw a light in his darkened destiny. He didn't dare to imagine even a single possibility that one day, he would finally get to rest. At peace, at last.

"Fair enough," Dean smiled weakly. He was about to swing his legs forward when he stopped abruptly.

Dean stared at the boat and then shifted his gaze to the old boatman. For a second, his determination wavered and Dean couldn't help but looking back to the field where he first came. There was nothing but grass, no single trace of supernatural inter-dimension gate or even a Narnia-style magic cupboard. And yet, Dean kept staring at the same direction so longingly.

"You look hesitant, Son," Charon frowned for the first time.

Dean continued to stare at the field and murmured, more to himself than to the old boatman, "If I leave, what'd happen to Sam?"

John's deep voice suddenly rang fiercely in Dean's mind. It was the usual command, repeated over and over again.

 _You have to save Sammy!_

 _Take care of Sammy!_

 _Don't let anything bad happen to Sam, you hear me Ace?_

The voice got stronger, more desperate with plea and distress. Drowned in frustration, Dean tried to block it but his dad's dying whisper didn't seem to lessen, let alone disappear.

"Do you think Sam wouldn't be able to take care of himself?" Charon soon broke the cacophony in Dean's mind.

Slowly digesting the boatman's words, the hunter felt his shoulders slumped in defeat. "No… It's just—"

"After everything, do you think Sam would want to welcome you back with open arms?"

 _Yes,_ Dean had wanted to answer so bad, but what good would it bring when he knew exactly that he was just pretending to himself? And while his mind was shouting the affirmative, his heart had already sunk in acceptance of the inevitable. Dean remembered the dock, the look in Sam's eyes, and he knew the best possible answer for the boatman's question.

"Probably not," Dean whispered in surrender, "because maybe deep down… I know… _always knew_ … he's better off without me…"

* * *

"I really think we should get moving, Sam," Castiel broke the suffocating silence once again, this time with urging tone so heavy Sam could've believed the angel was actually pleading. "We might have run out of time to bail Dean out from any trouble he is in," he continued.

Sam let out a shaky breath. His eyes still wavered, unsure. "That… _if_ Dean's indeed in trouble. We don't know for sure, Cas…"

"But you said—"

"It _happened,_ " Sam couldn't help but snap, "in the _past_ …"

This time, Castiel didn't suppress his frustrated sigh. "You _were_ so sure…"

"I wasn't…"

In fact, he was. That one Sam couldn't deny, not even the slightest bit. He and Dean had a fair share of past experiences to actually notice some kinds of pattern overtime.

Given the records history, this wasn't the first time he and Dean had parted ways. There had been several occasions in the past, and _yes_ , it was always Sam who take the first move to leave. Every single one had been done under Sam's choice, either driven by his own ambition, or because he was so pissed of Dean.

However, Sam had to admit that each time he left, it was never for eternity. If being pissed so bad became the case, Sam would just need a space to cool off before being able to put it all behind and move on. He always meant to come back, and he'd expect to find everything stayed the way he left it. _If only life was so easy…_

But no. It just happened that each time Sam left, terrible things occurred to none other than the person he cared about the most. If only he didn't leave for Stanford, Dad wouldn't left Dean alone to hunt and faced God-knew-what horrible evil out there. If Sam was a little late to abort his plan to catch his dad in California, Dean might have been on some _jeepers creepers'_ list of dinner menu. There were also the time with Gordon, but off course, nothing had beaten down the record of his betrayal with Ruby while on demon blood addiction. Because somehow, everything came after that moment always resulted in disaster.

Sam alternated to glance at Castiel and the cell phone displayed on his palm, noting how the angel was practically begging Sam to take the phone he offered. Even the hunter could read the unspoken words reflected on Castiel's deep blue eyes, which seemed to cry out, _Just grab the damn phone and call Dean already, will ya?_

Under the scrutiny, Sam finally reached to the phone ever so reluctantly. Once the phone was in his grip, Sam didn't type for numbers. Within his periphery, Sam could tell obvious nervousness pouring from the angel like some kinds of weird aura. Without any trace of doubt, Sam turned back his attention to the phone and hit '1' on the speed dial.

 _BEEP… BEEP…_

 _BEEP… BEEP…_

 _BEEP… BEEP…_

Exactly as Sam thought, it directly connected to Dean's cell… although after a while and few more tries later, the calls seemed to go unanswered. Each time.

Taking a nervous break, Sam took a detailed look on the phone screen and frowned. There didn't seem to be any problem with the cell phone, the signal, or the battery. However, the fingers wrapping around the frame of the cell had begun to tremble. It didn't take long for Sam to realize those were his own fingers he was frowning at.

 _Dean is alright, doesn't he?_ Sam's mind screamed a bloody denial, but his body seemed to betray him. He was sure of this even more when his heartbeats started to race in a whole new different, quickened phase, which slowly started to match Sam's breathing too.

The tell-tale of panic was familiar. Sam had experienced this sensation far more often than he dared to remember, including all those times he decided to left his older brother, no matter what the reason or cause. But in Sam's defense, Dean had left too. He went to hell and then he went to purgatory, and what happened after and in between were still never pretty.

If life supposed to consist of trials and errors to make it better, Sam would have disagree, big time. Ever since the whole missing dad fiasco, their life seemed to get stuck in endless row of errors without so much of improvement as the result.

Eventually, Sam just had to admit that separation had been one of the most fatal errors both Winchesters had ever done. Nothing good ever came out of it, and yet, they just seemed to keep on doing it… _somehow_ …

And for any single reason Sam tried his best to conjure up, there was just no way that he'd be able to ignore the nagging feeling that he needed to turn around the other direction and check on Dean. He just really had to. Now. Before _it_ was to late, whatever _it_ implied…

"Cas," Sam whispered in finality, "we're heading back to town. Now."

The angel simply nodded then turned the pimp car around the other direction from the one they were heading to. Soon as the car settled into the right position, Castiel didn't waste any more time and hit the gas pedal almost simultaneously.

Ignoring the roar and slightly swerved of the car, Sam slightly squished Castiel's phone and muttered to himself, "You better turn your GPS on, Dean."

* * *

TBC to Midas' Gold 4: Wherever You Are.

Your REVIEWS, FAVS or FOLLOWS are LOVE :')


	4. Wherever You Are

**Author's Note:** There will never be enough thanks for all of you who had "favorite" & "follow" either this story or me as the author. And I don't know how to show my gratitude for each of you guys' encouraging comments and reviews *sob

With irregular updates and all, I hardly think I deserve all this. I'm still struggling to balance out my "new-working life-normal" with fantasy life, so sorry for the looooooong delay. I know I said it'd be the last chapter but after writing it, I thought I needed to split the last chapter into two parts since it's just waay too long (in my opinion). So Chapter 5 _seriously_ will be the last one. Promise.

 **Summary:** We all knew how the "Roadtrip" ended for the brothers. Disastrous. Dean tried to find comfort by getting himself drunk. That was when the golden liquid caught his attention…

 **Warning:** The story is not beta- _ed,_ so as I told you many times before, all mistakes are mine and I'd like to apologize beforehand [English is not my mother language]. Not slash. Sort-of-but-not-so-canon. With sort-of-but-not-really-OFC (and some stray OCs). Heavy angst all over H/C emotional & physically. Featuring Sam, Dean, Cas, and (mention of) Crowley & Gadreel. Tag to Eps. "Roadtrip". Bit spoiler from S8 finale.

* * *

 **Midas' Gold**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Wherever You Are**

Anybody would've been able to tell if Sam Winchester was nervous only by looking at his grip. No matter what kind of expression he played on his face, especially by his dewy puppy dog eyes, Sam's hands would unconsciously search for something—anything—to grip tight, each time he was faced with extreme anxiety. For him, it was like a symbol of assurance and somewhere along the road, it became a habit Sam had finally made peace with.

In regards of that habit, Sam silently thanked whoever created smartphones and designed them with body of sturdy components. Because if a smartphone was made of paper or thin aluminum foil instead, Cas' cell phone would've been a piece of squished junk right then.

The smart device was currently trying to track Dean's whereabouts. The process had took forever when Sam cursed himself for realizing too slow that unfortunately, Dean's GPS must be turned off. The younger Winchester swore a little bit more before letting his logic took over and worked with necessary modification for the tracking apps setting instead.

It still frustrated Sam 'till no end that even with his little tech magic, the tracker didn't work quite as accurate as he expected earlier. On his left side, Castiel was still putting his best effort to drive as fast as he dared they might've violated few traffic rules already. Thanks goodness he was an angel, not a saint instead. However, the last passed sign told them that they still had couple more miles to catch up before coming back downtown.

For all the trouble they had been getting, the tracking device only blipped at a general location. Most likely a neighborhood where Dean might be lingering at. Sam stared at the shy blip and sighed in frustration. That wasn't good enough. By the time he and Castiel reached town, Dean could be anywhere doing God knows what and there would always be possibilities that they wouldn't be able to get him on time.

Sam held a violent urge to smash Castiel' phone on the windshield for giving no meaningful progress. Albeit the sucky performance, the device itself was innocent, after all. Sam just had to know exactly where Dean was, not only a vague notion of some random location where his big brother might be at. He was absolutely so not in the mood for twenty questions anyway.

Eventually opting for alternatives, Sam reached inside his jeans side pocket for his own cell phone. If calling using Castiel' phone earlier didn't get desirable outcome, he might as well try again with his. _As if it would bring any better luck_ , Sam had almost rolled his eyes while taking out the phone.

But off course, it would. Well, it _should._

To be honest, there was still a hint of thought bobbing in Sam's mind, telling him that no matter how _profound_ Dean's relation with Castiel was, the bond with his little brother would— _should—_ undoubtedly come first, before anything else. There were just things only Sam could do, to whom Dean would likely give any respond at all.

Because undoubtedly, Dean had given Sam his words on the subject so clearly back at the abandoned church, before the event of falling angels.

" _Don't you dare thinking that there's anything, past of present that I'll put in front of you. It has never been like that… ever..."_

Sure, no. Sam knew the answer too well. When it came to Sammy, there seemed to be nothing could get in Dean's way. Didn't matter the circumstances, didn't matter the consequences. Because it was exactly why Dean did what he did, including those Sam—and so many other family, friends, and even enemy—considered foolish, 'till practically no end.

For Sam, the memory was still fresh, as if it happened only yesterday. It was the day Dean killed the yellow-eyed demon, the day when Sam figured out the hard way that Dean was just given a second chance for his little brother to live, in exchange of his very own soul in hell. For all he cared, it was certainly a memory Sam would never be able to wash away from his mind.

He remembered Dean told him exactly that taking care of his little brother, keeping little Sammy safe, was practically his one job. Dean too had made it real clear that he would never, not in his right mind, ever screwed the job up on purpose.

" _I need you to see that…"_

And might be that was the problem. While Sam might naturally go for alternatives, Dean was tied to the state he was raised with, thinking that no other options were possible. Somehow, it was always hard to see a loyal devotion when you grew up taking it for granted.

Might be that was the difference. Sam could place a bright future—or _sweet revenge_ , as proved by many turns of his later events in life—as his sole purpose; one thing that kept him going. While at the same time, Dean would be more than willing to put a person as _his_ purpose. Instead of pursuing something for his own benefit, Dean would rather tie his own fate to the life of others. To the life of his little Sammy.

Might be that would make Dean answer the damn phone if it was Sam who called.

It was only a sliver of hope, but it was still something at the very least. For now, Sam would hang on to that tiny light, hoping that their luck wouldn't be as crappy as the rumor had it.

So Sam hit one on his speed dial. And while waiting for the connection to make it to the other side, Sam couldn't help to think that no matter what life had brought to them, Dean might always be his and Castiel' top priority after all. It was proven by the speed dial setting, of which anybody had set probably out of unconscious mind.

However, the first call resulted in massive disappointment. Sam had his hope brought so high that Dean might actually pick the call up the first try. While Sam was also aware that Dean would stay with his MO for not answering the call—just like the one from Castiel' phone earlier—it was still hurtful for Sam to know that his prediction actually failed miserably.

It was finally down to another agonizing wait before the call was actually picked up. Aching to seize the opportunity, Sam was about to say 'hello' when something different slipped out of his lips instead.

"Uh… D-Dean?"

There was an awkward pause and slowly, Sam started to comprehend how hollowed his own voice sounded like in his ears. It was definitely not the voice of a grown up ferocious hunter he came into being. If Sam didn't know better, he could've swore that his voice exactly sounded like a lost puppy. It was Sammy speaking to his big brother Dean.

For a couple more seconds, there was nothing on the receiving end of the line. Sam could tell that the phone was still connected, but somehow, Dean on the other side seemed to get caught in hesitation to make any replying remarks. Trying to sustain his long-trained hunter patience, Sam waited in silence, almost forgetting to let go of his impending inhalation breath.

After what seemed like forever, there was finally a voice from the other side of the line. However, it wasn't Dean's.

"Yeah?" a feminine voice echoed.

 _The fuck?_

Sam was once again speechless, but for a whole different reason. The voice was definitely a woman's. There was a sweetness and yet firm quality in her tone of voice. Just exactly how Dean preferred his targeted woman sounded like.

And that was it. Sam felt like hot magma had just climbed up his chest, blinding his eyes with all shades of red. He was worried sick about Dean—the same bastard of big brother who had lied and pissing Sam off royally—and the son of a bitch was actually in the middle of enjoying his sweet time with a woman for God sake!

"Are you related to Dean somehow?" the woman asked exactly when Sam was a button away from hanging up. Honestly, the odd question kind of caught him off guard.

"And you're uh… with him now?" That was all Sam could sputter without giving away any hint of surprise or other general emotion to the woman.

"You looking for Dean," she rather sounded like stating than asking, but this time with more concern and anxiety vibrated in his voice. "You are _really_ looking for Dean _right now?_ "

 _Now that's odd,_ Sam thought in surprise. He was expecting something raspy and husky—more like interrupted mid-sex moan kind of sound—but finding a steady and even question instead. Might be this lady was not the ordinary Dean's victim after all.

"Supposedly… yeah…," Sam managed to croak, unsure of what to say. "Who's this?"

There was another long pause before the lady started to speak again. "You care about him?"

Sam spontaneously frowned in confusion. "Why bother?"

"Do you care whether he's dead or alive?"

The time the question escaped from the phone's speaker, Sam went rigid. From his periphery, he could see Castiel's body was also tensing, even though Sam didn't put the phone in loud-speaker mode. Looked like the angel of the Lord had no trouble picking up the signals anyway. He was like friggin holly living wiretapping instrument at the moment.

It seemed that the trouble they predicted had already begun. Sam growled. His voice was calm but menacing. "What have you done to my brother?"

"Brother?"

"Where the hell is he?"

"Hm…"

"Oi!"

"I'm sorry," the woman whispered, "'thought he was all by himself."

Every words and every curses Sam had prepared on the tip of his tongue had suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving behind a bitter sensation all over his taste buds. From the other side of the line, Sam was vaguely aware of sharp inhale and exhale of the woman he was speaking with, but there was no more words following about.

For the umpteenth times, heavy silence befell upon Sam. Few more seconds passed in a super slow motion and Sam was just strained to hear more from the woman. Anything about Dean at all.

"I didn't know somebody would be looking for him," the woman finally continued. Her formerly steady voice had somehow weighed down with tinge of sorrow on its edge now. "He's supposed be alone, or else…"

And that was the moment Sam knew he had broken down in despair for good. The tone of voice the woman was using had felt so dreading, as if something real terrible had been done and there was no reversing it. It reminded Sam of one of those days when he was so numb in the body for sitting all night on a plastic chair, and was as well in the heart for waiting any possible bad news some doctor would tell him after tending Dean in the ER—or far more frequently, OR.

The prospect of bad news was so overwhelming that Sam found himself losing concentration upon what the woman said next. All he could choke out from his suddenly constricted throat was, "Let me talk to Dean."

"You won't be able to talk to him," said the woman. And that was the dreadful answer Sam would refuse to acknowledge but expecting its coming nonetheless.

"If you're screwing around with my brother, I swear…"

"I mean it," the woman sighed wearily, "he _can't_ talk to you right now."

The bad news just kept on coming and Sam had a real strong feeling the woman was so far from finished, especially in terms of telling him anything about Dean's condition right now.

If bad news was some kind of narcotics, then Sam most likely could've possibly died from the excess of dosage already. Funny thing was that Sam knew so well it'd break him into tiny pieces, just like the way any narcotics did to its regular addicts, just like demon blood did to him couple years back.

But at the current moment, Sam felt like he needed just any news, even the worst one.

"Is he…"

Sam just couldn't brought himself to finish his question. He swore not to let out the word 'alive' because it would feel the same as eliminating any hope that Dean was still with him, on earth. Asking it out loud would sounds equal to doubting the notion as well. It sounded very lame, Sam knew. Even by giving the sentence a chance to slip out, Sam was acknowledging the vulnerable state he was at… and how important Dean's existence might be for him.

After years of military training and extreme hunting, Sam should know better not to show any evidence of weakness in the face of enemy. Even when the situation was dire, it was a basic rule not to show any fear, for it might be used against you by the end of the day. But tonight, all Sam's instinct worked against his usual logic only to make sure that his big brother was okay. Nothing else mattered. Consequences be damned.

Sam gulped down nothing, but finding enough courage to repeat and probably finished his previous left-unsaid question. "Is Dean a—"

"He's alive," the woman cut in hastily, "but not for long."

Sam's eyes widened. His relief was too short-lived. Sam's breath intake was caught in his throat and seemed to stuck there for a while, before circulating back as a pained gasp. So it confirmed that Dean indeed ran into some kind of trouble. A nasty one too. But even when Sam addressed the issue to Castiel, he really had no idea how massive the trouble Dean was actually plunging into.

What Sam suspected so far was that this whoever lady had somehow taken a custody of Dean. She might've kidnapped Dean, but why and how? Or she might just held Dean somewhere right very now, but for what?

Was she a demon, some kinds of Abaddon's minions? Or maybe one of Metatron's angel bitch instead? But her weary tone of voice, the apology, the not-calling-a-hostage-relative, and especially the surprise of knowing that Dean and Sam were brothers… they just didn't fit at all with the "demon or dick-angel scenario".

"Dean is currently unconscious, I can tell you that much," the woman's voice snapped Sam out of his reverie, "and he doesn't have much time."

Bit more snarl, bit more evil chuckles, bit more malice, and this woman would've convinced him how much of a villain she was. But even her sound alone had radiated all things opposite the bad. Soon as he got to know this lady, Sam swore to find out what kind of game she might be playing right now. But first thing first, he had a dire need to get to Dean as soon as possible.

"I'm heading to your place," Sam concluded, "care to share where?"

" _Lucky Jack,_ first thing on Lincoln Ave. No way you'll miss it." Short, bold, and clear. Seemed like she also knew exactly that Sam was nearby. The lady had even answered without leaving any pause. In Sam's eyes, she instantly gained some more credit points for _not_ being the bad guy in this whole messed up situation, despite the raise of Sam's now suspicion level.

"Dean better be there," Sam let out a low growl, the one he usually did as a threat to some poor soul during regular case investigation, "you make sure of that, or else…"

"Trust me he's not going anywhere. Not like he can do anything right now anyway," the steady voice was back to answer. This lady didn't even seem to flinch to the sound of Sam's cold anger. "'Cuz I'm sure he would've if he could," she continued.

The woman's last comment right before hanging up didn't satisfy Sam at all, but that had to do for now. Dean was _still_ alive and he knew exactly where to find him. That seemed like a good start at the very least.

"It's Dean, Sam," was the only thing Castiel muttered from driver seat, but Sam knew the angel meant to point out of so many things. Because the word _Dean_ itself had long been a symbol of sheer stubbornness, courage, loyalty, strength, endurance, and will—at least that was what Sam and Castiel could see from the older Winchester.

Longer than Sam might want to remember, Dean had been a solid existence for Sam, for John, and for anyone else around the sandy blond hunter. Sam remembered long ago, anytime he was separated from his brother during many events of hunt and Sam grew worried towards his nowhere-in-sight brother, John would calm him saying, _"It's Dean, Sam." He'd know what to do,_ was the unspoken continuation _._

You could give Dean the most impossible task on earth and you just knew the guy would find a way to complete it somehow. It might not be perfect, but you'd know Dean would give you the best of him no matter what. Sam could feel a twinge of guilt, knowing that used to make him questioned his dad easily while he could just blindly relied on Dean, so much to the point Sam would almost have no lingering doubt whatsoever.

"It's Dean," Castiel said it once more with more emphasis on his human best friend's name. His view was still glued on the road, unwavering. Sam drew a tight line but saying nothing. He threw a glance sideways and could somehow see the angel's features relaxed a bit.

For a moment, Sam contemplated what Castiel had trying to tell him. He knew what Castiel had said to him should've been some kind of encouragement. Sam even wanted to thank the angel for trying alright, but now he just couldn't grasp any kinds of comfort or relieve, especially when he was sure as hell that Dean was far from alright.

The usual day-to-day Dean, Sam _knew_ he could rely on. Too bad, today _wasn't_ their usual day.

* * *

"I know it's always hard for you guys to actually leave those who were living," Charon commented calmly, "you guys always exhaust yourselves up thinking of what might happen to your loved ones if you decide to go."

"I'm Sam's only family," Dean responded, but his voice felt so dry and raspy, "and so does Sam for me."

"I totally understand, Dean," the old boatman sighed, "many people before you thought it was the sense of belonging that keep them tied to those they love. To what they consider _family._ "

"We _are_ family…"

" _Sure you are,_ " Charon challenged without losing the steadiness in his voice, "'cause last time I checked, family stick to each other, defense each other no matter what the circumstance was. Did Sam hold onto you? Did he actually feel that he _belong_ with you?"

"I…"

"Because I did hear you, Son. You said it yourself that he's better off without you," Charon's voice softened, "for good."

Dean swallowed bitterly. Of all people, he should've known better that everything used to belong to him— _anything_ at all—had been ripped away on that day in 1983.

On the day Dean saw his sweet mommy burning on the ceiling, he just somewhat knew that the concept of possession was plain bullshit. There was just nothing he could keep forever, so he might as well be prepared for the devastating sensation of lost.

John raised him in the way that made Dean realize there were only few things you could have as constant part of life. Few things you could actually _belong_ with. The impala was one of the scarce, considering the extreme nomadic life he'd led so far. Off course, home was definitely never in the picture, but _family_?

Well, it was a question of _faith,_ really.

Faith required huge amount of trust, and with the childhood innocence taken away from him, it was almost automatic that Deanhad a real hard time to trust in something. Repeat that, _anything._ So _not trusting_ was a concept Dean took for granted since a long-long time ago.

Faith also required a sense of hope, that there would always a bright light at the end of the tunnel. And yet, darkness had become another constant in Dean's life besides the impala. So yes, on the top of _trust issue,_ Dean just happened to experience difficulties to live in hope for the promise of better future.

The idea of _hope_ itself would sound so novice and naïve in his ears. Because for a man who had to fight for his life against ferocious danger in daily basis, the definition of 'hope' would be as simple as breathing long enough to see tomorrow.

So asking Dean to _have a little faith_ was indeed an arduous task to do. However, Dean had given up his faith for anything but one. He still kept a space of hope—of _little faith_ —not for God or other heavenly being, but for his family. _Or_ , what was left of it.

Dean agreed to move from town to town without a single flinch because he had faith on his dad and his decision. Dean had worked so hard to bring at least some resemblance of _normal_ to the Winchester's life because he had faith in Sam and his much brighter future. There was nothing Dean would not do to make sure that his family—the only source of his faith—felt the sense of belonging to each other. Especially, that they belonged with him.

When John decided to leave Dean on his own, the younger hunter was truthfully devastated. He had given up pretty much everything to adjust with the harsh life of hunting, albeit getting to eventually like it. But then he decided to keep on hunting, because he still had that little faith that he'd finally meet his dad again, and that would also be the day he'd gank the son of a bitch who took away her mom.

Sam's departure to Stanford was equally devastating, if not worse. But then he got to meet his little brother again, even ended up hunting once more time together. However, he had lived with the daunting idea that one day, Sam would be back to college, right after they were done with the yellow-eyed demon. Little that they knew back then, how twisted destiny would eventually led their life into. But at least for a moment, Dean could enjoy the luxury of trusting again. Of having faith again.

Dean remembered that it was basically Sam's faith which saved his life after the showdown with a rawhead back then. But Dean wouldn't let Roy LeGrange to heal him if he didn't put _any_ faith in Sam at the first place.

Then Dad died, Sam died too, and Dean's faith just went away with them. Even after John's soul had been finally set free, then Sam got his life back but ended up losing it again to end the apocalypse, Dean had learned a precious lesson not to put faith in practically anything anymore. Because even the only thing he managed to put some faith in would eventually let him down anyway.

When Bobby, Castiel, Lisa and Ben came more frequently into view, Dead had to admit that his original resolve did wavered. Might be this time would be better, or so he thought. But of course, this time was no different. They were gone just like everything else in Dean's life. So yes, when it came down to the question of faith, Dean knew better that having one on board would equal pain and betrayal somewhere at the end of the road.

Sure, Castiel and Sam came back then somehow established themselves as something Dean could reconsider as a constant in his life. So many things happened since then, and Dean learned to eventually grow and retrace absolute equal faith in both Sam and Castiel, especially Sam though.

Nothing hurt so much than seeing his little brother, hands shaking and voice rasping, asking if Dean still _did_ trust him back at the abandoned church. From that day on, Dean had promised to himself that he'd never doubt his trust for Sam anymore, and he'd expect his little brother to do the same thing.

Tonight, Dean had blew it though. No wonder Sam felt so awfully betrayed and it really wasn't his fault to feel that way. Once upon a time, there were times when faith was no question between Dean and his brother. Sadly, today really wasn't one of those day.

Those days had long gone now.

Dean could feel rush of moisture flooding his eyes and he tried in vain to blink them away. His throat was constricted and raw when he finally spoke, "What do I do then?"

Charon gave Dean a gentle smile. "All you need to do is come right here and step into my boat. It'll take you to a painless journey, I can promise you that much."

* * *

Castiel noticed the neon sign of _Lucky Jack_ first thing once he turned the wheel into Lincoln Ave. He could faintly feel the humanly rush of adrenaline blocking his ears from any noise, channeling his mind to solely focus on parking the car. On the passenger side, Castiel could practically see Sam biting his thumbnail, itching to spring out the car the moment the engine stop rumbling.

So soon as the car was finally parked on an empty alleyway beside the pub, both hunter and angel jumped out of their seat. They rushed to _Lucky Jack_ as if their life depended on it, because they knew Dean's life equals theirs.

Castiel could still feel blood rushing in each vein of his head, isolating him from the assault of distracting noise of loud music and the strong smell of smoke, alcohol, cheap perfume, and sweat combined. Sam took one side of the unexpectedly vast interior, to the spot with some pool table where he suspected Dean might have gotten into trouble hustling some irritable poor bastards. Castiel took the other, where the bar was.

It was still less than two hours passed midnight, so the place was still quite crowded. Castiel had to put tremendous effort to walk across the random crowd, among groups of people chattering and laughing before reaching the bar.

And there he finally spotted the sandy haired hunter, slumped awkwardly on the bar table.

Castiel knew calling Sam would be a pain in a place so crowded and loud, so he opted to send him text message instead and missed-call Sam afterwards, to let him notice the text. However, he didn't wait for Sam to answer and started to work his way to get to Dean. The way the hunter's prone body looked seemed signaling for some immediate action, if it wasn't too late already.

* * *

Sam was so relieved to read Castiel's text, because he was so sure to almost lose it when he found his brother was nowhere in sight near any of the pool tables. Deliberately pushing those who were on his way, Sam moved from his spot to the bar table on the other side of the room.

An unsettling burden kept on increasing at the pit of Sam's stomach with each step he took to get Dean. The sensation however morphed into twisting and churning dread once Sam saw Castiel shaking Dean's shoulder so hard with apparently no avail.

Sam was drenched with cold sweat all over by the time he reached Dean. The exertion and adrenaline rush had left him light lightheaded and gasping for simple breath. But at the sight of his unmoving brother, Sam unconsciously wiped all sorts of weakness signs he might be showing. He would have time to lick his wound later but right now, nothing override his priority to check on Dean.

Gulping some more precious air, Sam looked at his brother's prone body and to the angel, who was currently sniffing the air around Dean. For all Sam knew, the angel might be trying to pick up the level of alcohol Dean had consumed from the smell of his breath. Visually though, there were indeed couple obvious strong evidences, such as empty glass and dozen bottles of beer in front of the unconscious hunter. It was pretty insane even for Dean's standard, Sam contemplated.

"Smells like he's drank high amount of alcohol," Castiel frowned deeply.

 _You tell me,_ Sam answered silently. Secretly, he was indeed more than hoping that drunkenness was the only case here. Period.

"So… he's just drunk, isn't he?" Sam spoke his wish out loud.

Some parts of Sam's brain sure wanted to believe that the only reason why Dean was unresponsive was because he had knocked himself out with just too much drink. Sam knew that finding Dean in his drunken state was a rare occurrence, but it wasn't like the older hunter had never drunk before.

When his breathing finally eased, Sam took a step towards his brother but stopped right when he got by Dean's side. Something seemed to virtually raise a warning flag in Sam's brain, keeping him from touching Dean. It was odd for all reason, but Sam really felt a heavy tension building up in his chest only to simply reach out and make a contact with Dean.

Castiel stared at Sam's hesitation but said nothing. His right hand was reaching to give some gentle slap to Dean's cheek while Castiel' left hand stayed to rest firmly on the hunter's shoulder. After few futile attempts to wake Dean up, Castiel straightened. His face was filled with deep concern.

"He's uhm… he's out cold?" Sam barely managed a whisper, still couldn't bring himself to make a contact with his unconscious older brother.

Castiel averted his gaze to Sam and sighed. "I don't think so, Sam." His attention moved back to Dean, "your brother… he's not… cold."

"Not cold…" It felt like Sam had to put extra effort to comprehend Castiel's word. The exhaustion seemed to finally catch up with his barely healed body. "What do you mean?"

Castiel put his palm on Dean's forehead. His lips were instantaneously pulled into straight line. "His skin is practically very hot to the touch," Cas frowned impossibly deepened as he looked straight to Sam this time, "Sam, Dean's burning up. Is it normal? I know humans can get hangover and nausea after getting drunk, but fever this high?"

At the mention of fever, Sam's eyes widened. He looked at Dean's face, noticing the paleness—which made all his freckles stood up so very clearly—but found no other sign of obvious illness. There was no perspiration covering his temples. There wasn't even any pinkish flush on either side of his brother's cheek.

Reluctantly, Sam reached out his hand to Dean and momentarily dazed to the fact that his fingers were practically craving to the contact, despite his brain's yell to stay away. Sam didn't even realize how hard he had restrained himself these last few minutes from throwing himself to his big brother, just to make sure—for Dean, but even more likely for himself—that everything was alright.

Getting older had made Sam forgot that a long time ago, he used to unconsciously cling to Dean almost anytime. It was like a muscle memory, when Sam's childish mind would interpret "Dean" as a fort, the only place he could always run into and depended upon.

Dean practically used to be his little brother's rock of ages. Dean could keep thing intact, breaking things apart, modifying stuff to his liking, building something from scratch, or even creating something out of thin air… _or so_ little Sammy _used_ to think.

Sam could vaguely remember that each night during his time in elementary school, Dean would read him a story. Sam's freakishly smart brain somehow noticed that for many times, Dean would actually held the same book over and over again. And that's the neat part, because there was not a single time Sam remembered Dean repeating the same story ever. When a story got old, Dean could've done anything down to modifying the tiniest bit detail of the story then all of a sudden, came up with a whole different story.

As he grew up, Sam would hang on to that; believing that Dean would be able to fix just pretty much anything. Even developing something out of nothing. Sam knew it was quite normal for the younger version of him to practically worship his big brother. The difference was, with all supernatural shit happened while they were growing up, little Sammy once came up with a divine conclusion that his brother Dean was undoubtedly an invincible superhuman.

Even it still shocked Sam these days to witness the truth. That sometimes, Dean was just… _Dean_. He was _not_ invincible—because apparently, he _did_ died, went to hell, and got back a broken soul. His inhumanly high threshold of pain didn't make him immune to suffering, both physically _and_ mentally.

Even as mighty as he was, Dean Winchester _did_ needed something… _anything…_ to fix him too. In this case—and pretty much _many_ other _cases_ starting from the day Dean figured out Yellow-Eyed's plan for Sam—the now eldest Winchester would chugged himself with liquors to help him cope with life. His _fucked up_ life.

And the realization was just plain unnerving for Sam. Dean was just _that_ desperate to not choosing his brother instead as a rock of consolation.

Sam sighed. His desire to make a direct contact to Dean finally won over his ego. There was that familiar pang of guilt crept on Sam's chest, but he couldn't bring himself to get more pissed to the fact that Dean might not even put him into consideration, before hitting the bar for some kind of leverage.

 _I've brought this upon myself,_ Sam thought, _with my latest decision to let Dean go._

Sam finally brought his palm to sneak on his brother's forehead and almost jolted with the surprising unnatural heat radiating from Dean's skin. If Sam had a thermometer right then, he would've bet on all his pathetic luck that Dean's temperature must've exceeded 103O. But while Dean's face was practically sweat-free, his skin wasn't dry either. It felt more like clammy, as if Dean was in shock for losing so much blood.

Noticing the oddity, Sam immediately moved his fingers to feel Dean's carotid artery. For some moment, he waited, concentrating on finding even the tiniest sign of pulse. After a while, Sam was rewarded with a pulse, or two, or three. They were faint and thready at best. It was absolutely far from Sam's liking.

Averting his eyes to Dean's shoulder, Sam could barely see any movement at all. He moved close to his brother's face, trying to listen Dean's breathing. Sam frowned while noticing that Dean's breathing was shallow and labored—albeit quiet—as if he couldn't muster enough strength to inhale as much oxygen as his body so desperately needed.

Almost all symptoms screamed at Sam that Dean's body was on its way to shut down. But what about the fever? Could it be a sign that Dean's body was trying to fight off whatever thing that was currently weakening him?

During his whole observation, Sam could actually hear Castiel grunted. "Something's definitely wrong. I can feel it."

 _No shit, Sherlock,_ was all Sam wanted to respond, but his worry over Dean got the better of him. He drew a tight smile at Castiel. "Let's find out then."

Sam gave Dean's back a small pat and started to eye the other patrons of the bar. It was weird to see that people seemed didn't bother on what was happening around them. Even in a glance, they should've noticed that thing was definitely not right with Dean.

For a second, Sam's attention were caught by a big guy sitting few feet away from Dean. He had few bottles of beer lining up in front of him. Sam assumed that the biker guy must have been at the bar for a while now. There might be a fat chance that the beardy rough-looking guy could tell him something about Dean.

Putting aside any remnants of hesitation, Sam made a move to the guy. He huffed a piece of breath and gave his best shot. "Hey um… did you notice anything weird here, maybe?"

The beardy guy squinted his eyes to the newcomer, threw a lazy glance to Dean's slumping form, and snickered. "Y'friend of him?"

Realizing the guy sometime must have noticed him hovering over Dean earlier, Sam nodded. "Do you know what's going on with him?"

"Wha'daya mean what's goin' on with 'im?" The Beardy guy looked challenged, somehow, "he's obviously drunk, that's wha'."

Sam cleared his throat. It was a real pain to talk to a drunk, especially the stupid one. "Can you tell me what happened? Why he… uhm.. got _that_ drunk?"

The beardy guy was fucking sneering at Sam now. His thumb however, was pointing at Dean's direction. "That drunk-ass pretty boy right there, y'mean right? Are ya blind 'r wha'? Can't y'tell he's passin'out?"

"What did he drink?" Sam asked again, his voice trembled of impatience, "how many did he have?"

"Wha'am I his mother? Ho'am I s'possed t'know?"

The big guy was now standing on his two feet, all muscle and red-faced, but still swaying drunkenly nonetheless. He tried to make a solid stance as if he was about to pick a fight. Feeling a nerve popped on his temple, Sam stepped in front of the guy, equally towering the man with his muscular 6'3'' frame. A dizzy spell hit him momentarily, but Sam held on. He would not give any satisfaction to the drunkard asshole.

"Tell me now…"

"Or what?" the beardy guy threw Sam a highly-punchable smirk, "ya'll call yer mamma for help?"

That was all it took for Sam to move. If the guy didn't want to willingly be any help, Sam might as well force him to. Quicker than the biker guy could give him a credit for, Sam grabbed the guy's left arm and yanked it behind his back, while pushing the guy's back and slamming his head to the bar table.

"Change your mind yet?" Sam asked coldly. He could hear some gasps, possibly from other patrons of the bar, and some steps hurrying to him. Possibly Cas'. Anyhow, Sam made no attempt on releasing the guy. Not before he got the answer he needed.

"As..sk B-Bertha," the guy stammered in between pitiful groans, "s-she was d-doing this uhm… thing she did to persuade him to stop drinking… the usual…"

"What was it?" Sam lowered his head to the guy's ear now, practically giving him a threatening hiss.

"I-it was just some kinda trick, Man," the guy cowered. It looked like he was about to cry now. "She c'n make 'im think she's pourin' drink when she's actually servin'n empty glass…"

Sam was about to press more when Castiel shouted at him. "Sam, you've gotta see this!"

"Not now, Cas," Sam groaned. He still had some business with the drunkard.

"Sam, just let him go," Castiel's voice was stern this time, "I think I found something."

"Cas…"

"In Dean's glass," Castiel added.

That one, Sam finally couldn't ignore. The angel had just confirmed what the beardy guy told him. So, Sam reluctantly released his grip and let the beefy guy go.

For a moment, Sam just stood near the counter. He gave himself some time to do some breathing exercise to regain his composure before hurrying to Castiel's side. "What is it?"

The angel raised Dean's glass and started to observe it as if he was seeing through the glass. Castiel pointed the bottom part of the glass to Sam and started to explain, "I didn't notice it before, but now that I'm looking at it up close, I can see a residue of certain liquid in it."

Following Castiel's eyes, Sam joined him to observe the glass. However, no matter how hard he had squinted his eyes, hell even turned around a bit hopefully to get the better angle, Sam couldn't find jacksquat in it. Not even some glisten from the remnants of liquid Castiel had claimed to see.

"It was just a plain empty glass, Cas," Sam grunted, "there's nothing in it."

"Look closer, Sam! There's some leftover liquid left on the bottom, maybe only a couple point something cc," the angel insisted.

Sam tried to look again but kept finding nothing. He scratched the back of his head in frustration. "I can't see anything. Sure it's not few drops of water or something?"

"It's golden, Sam," Castiel firmly answered, "it is quite obvious."

Before Sam even managed to mutter something intelligible about the glass, or about his frustration towards Castiel obliviousness of their different result of observation, a recently familiar voice chided in. "How can you see it?"

Something snapped in Sam's mind. He knew _that_ voice. Sam turned around ever so quickly he might as well spinning. In a moment, Sam was face to face with a pretty brunette. Her long and wavy hair was let loose on her back.

Sam quickly observed the feature of her and spoke. "You were the one calling me, weren't you?"

* * *

TBC. to the very absolutely really truly _last_ chapter… "Notes n' Words"

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